I shuffled to the front door in my old slippers, still holding the phone. My daughter’s voice had been thick with tears, and that alone made my hands unsteady. When I opened the door, the morning light spilled across the porch and I stopped short.

There, resting against the railing, was the photo album I had given him the day before. Beside it sat a small wooden box and a folded piece of paper weighted down with a smooth river stone. My name was written on the paper in his familiar, slightly messy handwriting.

I carried everything inside and sat at the kitchen table. The note was short.

*Grandma,
I’m sorry I didn’t say much yesterday. I didn’t know how to. I’ve looked through every page twice already. The notes you wrote made me cry in the car. Thank you for remembering all the things I thought nobody else still cared about. I made you something. It’s not much, but it’s from me.
Love,
Ethan*